


A Mighty Flame Follows a Tiny Spark

by xblessthefall



Series: Anchors [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3x11 Coda, 3x11 Rewrite, Derek saves his spark, Drowning, Gen, M/M, Season 3, Temporary Character Death, Trigger Warning: Assisted Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xblessthefall/pseuds/xblessthefall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deaton makes a call before performing the surrogate sacrifices ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mighty Flame Follows a Tiny Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the trigger warnings listed above!

“Lydia,” Deaton interjects, “you go with Stiles.”

Lydia and Allison both look at Deaton in surprise, and Lydia’s steps falter. The girls exchange a look before their gazes shift to Stiles in understanding.

“No, I’ve got him.”

All eyes snap to the doorway, where Derek’s pushing away from the door frame and moving towards the others. He’s keeping his expression as cool and closed off as ever, but he doubts that Deaton will miss how unsteady his steps are, how pale Derek’s skin is.

It’s hardly surprising that everyone’s gaping at Derek after his little proclamation. Well, everyone except for Deaton, but that’s to be expected. On the other hand, Stiles looks like he’s just been struck over the head with a crow bar. The level of incredulity on the teen’s face should be insulting, but instead almost brings a grin to Derek’s face. Almost.

“Very well,” Deaton replies simply, taking Derek’s presence in stride. “Lydia, go ahead and help Allison. Isaac, you’ll be with Scott.”

The veterinarian nods to each teen in turn, and they all slowly nod their consent. Scott in particular is shooting Derek a suspicious scowl, and even Isaac glances his way uncertainly a time or two. Stiles is still gaping.

Derek ignores the others’ looks as he takes his place beside Stiles. He folds his arms over his chest to hide the way his hands are shaking. It helps that the motion always seems to make Stiles just that much more uneasy, so he hopes that the boy won’t notice the occasional tremor running through Derek’s arms. Healing Cora had nearly taken everything from Derek, _had_ taken the crimson from his eyes and the alpha power from his veins, but that isn’t something that Derek wants Scott or the others to know just yet.

They have enough on their plate.

He’s jarred from his musings when a bony elbow catches him in the side, and Derek shoots Stiles an irritated glare. It’s a real effort not to reach down and rub at his ribs to ease the annoying ache that lingers from Stiles’ jab.

“What are you even doing here?” Stiles mutters. His voice is pitched low as if to keep the others in the room from hearing him, as if he’s forgotten that nearly half of the room are werewolves and have heard him anyways. Stiles’ eyes are determinedly focusing anywhere but on Derek. It’s more accurate to say that they’re not focusing at all.

“Deaton called.”

That apparently startles Stiles enough to earn Derek a glance. Just as quickly, Stiles shifts his gaze over to Deaton, but his eyes narrow in suspicion. “He did?”

Deaton, the cheeky bastard, pauses in his conversation with Scott to look up and meet Stiles’ gaze. His eyes actually crinkle in amusement, but the expression is gone just as swiftly as it had appeared when the vet turns his attention back to Scott. It’s a clear dismissal, and Derek can practically feel the spike of irritation flaring off of Stiles as a result.

It’s instinct to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Derek’s not sure if the gesture’s meant to comfort or settle, but he’s a little surprised to find that it does both. Stiles remains stiff under his hand for all of a breath before the teen sighs heavily and allows his shoulders to slump.

It makes Derek’s skin itch to see Stiles so defeated.

He tightens the hand on the teen’s shoulder.

xxx

Watching Stiles step into the ice bath will go down as one of the worst moments in Derek’s life-- and seriously, that’s a tough record to hold. His life’s been filled with one tragedy after the next, and each of them have been tied back to Derek’s own actions in some way. He’s played a part in the destruction of everyone he’s ever cared about. Now, watching Stiles sink into the metal tub, still wearing those ridiculous maroon skinny jeans and looking scared out of his fucking _mind_ , Derek realizes that this will be no different.

Once Stiles and the others are stiffly settled into their icy baths, Derek steps closer and places his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. His grip is probably just shy of too-tight, but the boy doesn’t so much as flinch. Instead, Stiles lifts one of his hands and curls it around Derek’s wrist like he’s somehow supposed to be the one steadying _Derek_. It’s ridiculous. It’s _Stiles_. It’s all that it takes for Derek to let his tight control slip enough that his next breath shakes.

Stiles’ grip on Derek’s wrist flexes before Stiles lets his hand fall back into the icy water around him.

The boy’s trembling beneath Derek’s grip.

Then Deaton gives the signal, and Derek slowly pushes Stiles under the water’s surface.

xxx

Distantly, he registers that Deaton is saying something, but he can’t make himself pick out the actual words. The vet’s tone is soothing, and Derek can see him placing a hand on Lydia’s arm out of the corner of his eye, so he figures Deaton’s spouting off some sort of consolation to the three of them currently _drowning their friends_. Derek doesn’t feel particularly bad for tuning out that particular speech.

It takes forty-seven seconds for Stiles’ survival instincts to kick in. In an instant, he’s kicking and thrashing beneath Derek’s hands, his body’s need for air finally outweighing his rational thought. Derek hardly flinches when Stiles lifts his hands to claw at Derek’s forearms. The teen’s nails sink deeply into Derek’s skin, but Derek’s teeth sink deeper into his lip as he forces his arms to stay strong and keep Stiles submerged.

_You know when you’re drowning, you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called voluntary apnea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct not to let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding._

The water’s sloshing over the sides of the tub and onto the concrete floor of the veterinary clinic as Stiles continues to thrash in Derek’s hold. Derek’s clothes are soaked through, even his face is drenched-- he’s not sure if the drops clinging to his eyelashes are tears or not, but he’d blame it on the bath water either way. Especially when Stiles starts to keen desperately from beneath the water’s surface as the pressure on his head mounts. Making any sort of noise will only make him run out of air faster, but Derek thinks that maybe that’s why Stiles does it.

Even in his weakened state, Derek’s able to keep Stiles submerged using only one hand. He reaches out with his other and curls his fingers over Stiles’, pries the teen’s hand loose of the tub edge and threads their fingers together, clasping them tightly over the Sheriff’s battered badge. For just an instant, Stiles stills beneath the water’s surface and his fingers tighten around Derek’s, around the badge held in their clasped hands.

And then Stiles takes a deep breath, and surrenders himself to the icy water.

_Then when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore. It’s actually kind of peaceful._

With a final, valiant jerk, his body stills.

Derek’s next breath comes out as more of a sob.

Deaton’s begun to count now, so Derek thinks that Scott and Allison must have succumbed as well. It’s hard for him to really wrap his mind around what that means though, not with Stiles so limp in his grip. The teen’s eyes are still closed beneath the water. It’s almost like he’s just sleeping.

“Alright, get them out,” Deaton commands suddenly, his voice brooking no room for argument.

Not that Derek would argue with him on this. No sooner have the words left Deaton’s mouth than Derek’s hauling Stiles out of the metal tub with his hands under the teen’s arms. The weight and sudden movement are too much for Derek’s weakened body to take, but he manages to maneuver his body beneath Stiles’ before they go crashing to the floor. The sharp knock to the back of his head hardly fazes Derek, and he forces his limbs to cooperate so he can roll from under Stiles and begin doing clumsy chest compressions.

Derek’s never taken a CPR class in his life. As a werewolf there’s very little need for such things, and so he’s flying on instinct as he alternates between pounding against Stiles’ chest and breathing air into the teen’s mouth. He only prays that all those hours spent sitting through Grey’s Anatomy with Laura and Cora will finally pay off.

He hears Scott sputtering back to life from somewhere behind him, but Derek won’t let up from his haphazard CPR attempts to spare the other werewolf a glance.

“C’mon, Stiles,” he grinds out irritably, sure his voice sounds more desperate than anything and not giving a single shit about it, “Don’t be such a pain in my ass.”

He’s started in on another round of chest compressions when Scott and Isaac appear at either of Derek’s sides. Scott’s drenched and shivering, and his face is as white as a sheet, but his eyes are alert and assessing as he quickly glances over Stiles. Isaac’s nearly as wet as Scott, and his expression is caught somewhere between haunted and completely terrified.

Derek swipes an arm out to push Isaac aside so he can breathe air into Stiles’ mouth again. Before he can straighten to try another round of desperate chest compressions, he finds Scott has taken over that end of things.

Their eyes lock for an instant, and a sort of understanding passes between them. With a nod, Scott places his palms over Stiles’ chest and begins to press rhythmically.

Allison, Lydia, and Deaton all crouch down on Stiles’ other side a moment later, but Derek’s too busy trying to push air into Stiles’ lungs to pay them much attention. By now, Scott’s begun pleading with Stiles to come back to them, and Isaac’s curled in on himself and buried his fingers in his hair helplessly. Deaton wastes no time in joining in Scott’s attempts to reach Stiles.

When Stiles fails to breathe beneath Derek a fifth time, Derek drops his forehead against the teenager’s and shuts his eyes in an attempt to wield off the reality that Stiles isn’t going to respond. Acknowledging that would be admitting defeat, and that’s something that Derek’s not prepared to do. Not on this.

He’s not sure when his hand drifted back to thread his fingers through Stiles’ limp ones, but when he finally forces his eyes open and notices their joined hands lying near Derek’s knee, it gives him an idea.

He takes a steadying breath, steeling his resolve as much as his nerves. Doing this already cost him his power as an alpha tonight. If he were to try it again so soon, who’s to say that it wouldn’t cost Derek his life?

“Stiles, come _on_!” Scott growls. He’s given up on chest compressions now and is gripping Stiles by the teen’s biceps, and his eyes are flashing between beta gold and alpha red as Scott tries to shake the life back into his best friend.

Derek doesn’t hesitate again. He uses his hold on Stiles’ hand to draw the pain from the teen’s body, praying that doing so will somehow draw the life back _into_ the boy. Could Derek drain the death right out of Stiles? Maybe if he pulled enough--

The wave of pain slams into him with such force that it makes Derek sway on his knees. He pitches forward, catching himself with a hand on Stiles’ chest just before he can actually topple onto the prone teen. The pain’s unlike anything Derek’s ever felt, even worse than everything he’d taken from Cora not two hours ago. It makes darkness quickly curl around his vision, threatening to pull him under and never let him back up.

And then a hand is clamping over Derek’s forearm, and the darkness flees.

“--the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It takes a moment for Derek to place the voice. It’s thready, weaker than he’s ever heard it, but so familiar. It isn’t until Derek follows the hand curled around his forearm back to its owner that the answer dawns on him.

Stiles is looking up at him in horrified disbelief. His eyes are wide and his face is so fucking pale, but his heart’s beating sure and strong beneath Derek’s palm. The grip he has on Derek’s forearm is too weak to feel as steadying as it does, but for all that Stiles’ hold is feeble, it feels as heavy as an anchor.

 _As an anchor_.

Derek’s eyes widen a fraction at the realization.

Oh, shit.

Stiles starts coughing then, startling Derek from his horrified revelation and spurring him back into action. He helps Stiles turn onto his side and smooths a hand down his back as the teen heaves up water from his lungs. There are soon more hands on Stiles-- too many hands, really. They’re making Derek feel utterly claustrophobic, and he can‘t imagine that it‘s much better for Stiles.

Derek’s about to sit back to give the boy a bit of room when he realizes that his hand is still tightly linked with Stiles’, and that Stiles doesn’t seem to be showing any intent to let up on his grip anytime soon. As if reading his thoughts, Stiles actually squeezes Derek’s hand, dispelling any misconceptions Derek might have had that Stiles wasn’t aware of the contact.

“Give him room,” Deaton directs the others, even as he pushes through the gathered teenagers to get a better look at Stiles. As soon as he’s close enough, Deaton begins checking Stiles’ vitals. If his gaze lingers on Derek and Stiles’ joined hands, then the vet says nothing of it.

Scott falls back to sit on his ass and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Dude, you scared the shit out of us,” he grouses, but his tone is too relieved for the words to hold any heat. Isaac and Allison settle on either of Scott’s sides, but Lydia sticks close to Deaton as he continues to check over Stiles.

Derek tries not to glare at her. It probably doesn’t work.

“Did it work?” Stiles demands abruptly, his head snapping up and gaze flicking over everyone gathered. His teeth are chattering.

Deaton straightens and shoves his hands into his pant pockets. “I was hoping you could tell me.” The vet looks between Stiles, Scott, and Allison in turn. “How are you all feeling?”

Stiles huffs humorlessly. “Fucking _cold_ , that’s how.” The scowl that he’s aiming at Deaton falls somehow flat. His gaze quickly drops back to the floor as his hands rub uselessly over his arms. “But like… it’s not totally physical?”

Stiles looks to Scott and Allison for support, and Derek feels his throat tightening with unease.

Scott and Allison nod in unison.

“It’s… deeper, somehow,” Scott agrees slowly.

Deaton’s smile is grim. “Then we have our answer.”

The announcement doesn’t inspire a round of cheers. Instead, a heavy sort of silence settles over the room, broken only by the sound of Allison’s shaky breaths and Stiles’ chattering teeth. The two humans are shivering, sitting on the cold stone of Deaton’s clinic floor and dripping wet, but someone’s at least found Allison a towel to drape over herself.

With a scowl, Derek finds himself shrugging out of his leather jacket and unceremoniously throwing it over Stiles’ shoulders. He’s too busy yanking the jacket to rights over the teen’s frame to pay heed to the way Stiles is gaping at him rather unattractively. Well, other than to shoot him a quick, challenging glare.

If the room’s become suspiciously silent behind them, Derek doesn’t pay it much mind either.

Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh… thanks?”

Derek nods in acknowledgement before sitting back again, turning his attention back to Deaton. When he meets the vet’s amused gaze, Derek’s scowl deepens-- or it does until Stiles tentatively shifts his weight so he’s more or less leaning into Derek’s side, because then Derek’s a little too distracted by the strangeness of the sensation to put much effort into intimidating Deaton.

Of course, that only makes the stupid vet smirk at him, and so Derek pointedly redirects the man’s attention.

“What’s our next move?”

xxx

The teenagers all head off in different directions once they’ve got a new plan ironed out. As the first order of business, Scott, Allison, and Stiles are all heading back to their respective houses to change into dry clothes. Scott will run off to meet back up with Deucalion after that, while Allison, Isaac, and Stiles head straight for the root cellar. In the mean time Derek will be hunting down Psycho Ex-Girlfriend #2 and try to buy Stiles and the others some time.

Basically-- everything can go wrong with this plan, probably _will_ , and there’s no time to be wasted. So naturally, Deaton decides to have a little heart-to-heart with Derek before he can make his exit.

Fucking emissaries.

“You’re looking better, Derek.”

Despite himself, that gives Derek pause. He takes inventory of his condition for the first time since hauling Stiles out of the icy water and is surprised to find he actually doesn’t feel so weak anymore. His body is less lethargic, his muscles less strained. Even the bone-deep exhaustion that he’s carried with him since the alpha pack left their mark on the front door of his old house is gone.

He looks to Deaton in surprise.

“I feel better,” he admits, hating how stupid the words sound the instant they’ve passed his lips.

“Well I’d imagine so,” a new voice pipes up, drawing Derek’s gaze to the doorway. His frown returns when he spots Peter leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded casually and lips tilted into a stupid-smug smirk. Derek’s scowl only makes Peter’s smirk widen. His uncle pushes off of the doorjamb in favor of sauntering into the examination room.

Peter’s eyes dance in amusement.

“It seems you managed to save your spark after all.”

Derek lets his eyes flash, but before he can snap at Peter, a flare of red in the window behind his uncle's shoulder draws Derek's gaze. He instantly tenses, expecting to see any one of Deucalion's pack staring back at him from the other side of the glass.

Instead, Derek finds himself staring at his own reflection, stunned.

His eyes are glowing crimson.


End file.
